Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  Gillian’s mouth dropped open at his abrupt query, following so closely upon his startling mandates. “No, I—” she began, but he held up a hand, forestalling her words. She snapped shut her lips, unsure what he was about. Why was he so obsessed with cleanliness? Although they were hardly filthy, the nuns had been more occupied with matters of the spirit than with those of the flesh, and Gillian was unaccustomed to such concerns.

  “As my wife, you shall bathe daily,” Nicholas ordered. Striding to the door, he stuck his head out and called for Osborn to fetch hot water. Gillian gasped at his audacity. His manner alone was bad enough, with his constant shouts and commands; did he think to control even her most personal habits? Gillian dropped her arms to her side and glared at him. The man was outrageous!

  He whirled back toward her, his face implacable. “As I said, your sole task is to attend me. You will be at my beck and call, day and night. Whatever I want, you shall fetch for me personally. You will bring me my morning cup and make sure that I am bedded down comfortably every evening.”

  Gillian blanched at the mention of his bed, but was too angry to lose her breath over it. What kind of tasks were these? At the convent, everyone did for themselves, with only a few outsiders to help. And when she served in Freemantle’s household, she had cleaned the hearth and scrubbed the floor and worked hard. What did this man want of her?

  “And you will go about your work willingly. I would have you strive to behave more like an eastern woman, for they not only know how to please, but are submissive and obedient, anticipating a man’s every need,” he said, his lips curving wickedly. “In effect, Gillian, you shall be as a slave. My slave.”

  “Slave?” Gillian protested, choking on the word. “You are barbaric! There are no slaves in Britain. Go back to the East, and find yourself some godless infidel to dance upon your whims!”

  Ignoring her outburst, he circled her in a way that might have been calculated to dismay her. “Do not make the mistake of condemning a culture you do not understand. There are many fine things to be learned in the East. There, a wife lets down her hair only for her husband.”

  He turned suddenly, and for once, his silver eyes did not glitter with malice. Instead, they seemed to smolder with a hidden fire. Gillian took a step back, unsure whether the change was an improvement. “I would like you to adopt that custom. In fact, I would like to see it now.”

  “What?” Gillian gaped, uncertain just what he was asking of her.

  “Let down your hair. I wish to see it,” he whispered. His voice had gone all liquid and strange, and Gillian’s heart threatened to pop out of her chest. “Then you may bathe.”

  “What?” she whispered, unable to believe her ears. He expected her to get into that tub, without her clothing, while he stood by and watched? Something oddly akin to excitement sizzled along the surface of her skin and shot through to her innermost parts. But along with that strange awareness came fear, and Gillian felt the old, familiar constriction in her throat. She gasped, staring at him in panic.

  Gillian did not know what she expected—certainly not sympathy—and yet she looked to him for aid. He was the only one who could help her, and a few nights ago he had. Now, however, he assessed her with narrowed eyes, obviously angered by her distress. “Have you been raped?” he asked bluntly.

  Startled by the question, Gillian sucked in a deep draft of needed air. “No, of course not! Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because you have an unnatural fear of intimacy.”

  Gillian spluttered, astonished by such open speech. Of course she was afraid, as would any woman be when faced with a husband who despised her. “And why should I not? You are a brute, who would abuse me for your own sport!”

  “Have I ever raised a hand to you?” he snapped. “Have I ever hurt you? By my faith, I could kill you, and none would stop me, but when I ask you to unbind your hair, you look as if you would faint!”

  He whirled away in disgust, and Gillian stared at his broad back. Yes, he had hurt her many times with his sharp tongue and dagger eyes, but never with his fists. In truth, he had done little, physically, to her, and certainly nothing terrible, she thought, remembering the way he had pressed her palm to him.

  Gillian swallowed hard. “I was a servant once before,” she said softly. “It was a hard life, but the worst part was when my master would…fondle me.” She heard Nicholas’s swift turn, but could not look at him.

  “He never raped me,” she hastened to add, “but he would back me into a corner and… squeeze and pinch me and talk foully.” Gillian blew out a long breath at this telling, for she had never spoken to a soul of that shameful part of her life. Indeed, she had never even confessed her sins to the convent priest.

  Yet the words grew easier, as if she unburdened herself of the past by sharing it. “He would drop his braies, pull out his ugly little wick and wave it at me—”

  Before she could utter another sound, Gillian found herself pushed, none too gently, back against the wall. It was Nicholas who pressed her, who took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. Unwilling to face his revulsion, Gillian wanted to close her eyes, but he made her open them, and to her surprise, she saw neither shame nor horror on his handsome features.

  He was angry. His eyes glittered, more fiercely than ever, and Gillian drew in a startled breath.

  “His name!” Nicholas demanded hoarsely.

  “Who?” Gillian asked, her head spinning at both his nearness and his rage.

  “The bastard who did this to you!”

  “A-Abel F-Freemantle of Renfred,” Gillian stammered, puzzled by his sudden savagery. He dropped his arm and whirled away, crossing the room in great strides to grab his traveling pack.

  Leaning against the wall where he had left her, Gillian watched in astonishment. “What are you doing? Are you leaving? You just returned today,” she protested. “Where are you going now?”

  Over his shoulder, Nicholas looked at her as if she were witless. “I go to kill him, of course.”

  “Who? Abel?” Gillian asked, her voice rising in panic. “Nicholas! You cannot mean it! Do not!”

  He halted abruptly to pin her with that frightening gray gaze. “You have some affection for the bastard?” he asked, his tone silky with menace.

  “No, but neither do I wish to have his death on my head!” Gillian said. “For the love of Saint Paul, why must everything always be black and white with you? All or nothing? Hate or indifference, and naught in between?”

  He did not answer, but stalked toward her, all cold fury. Anyone with sense would have backed down and been quiet, but Gillian had never been known for her restraint. She lifted her chin. “Yes, the man frightened me, and I did not like what he did, but he had some good in him. He took me into his household when I had nowhere else to go. I might have died, had it not been for him.”

  Nicholas stood in front of her now, a tall, angry knight who could crush her in an instant, and Gillian knew she must turn him from his blood lust. Unable to think of the words to persuade him, she reached out to lay a restraining hand upon his arm. It was a simple enough gesture, intended to both calm and entreat her husband, and yet it turned out to be so much more than she expected.

  The minute she made contact, Gillian felt as if she had stuck her hand into the fire. Her palm sizzled, sending bright sensation through her, and she looked up at him, startled. Their eyes met, hers dazed, his smoldering, and then he slowly let his gaze fall to her fingers, where they rested on his sleeve.

  Suddenly Gillian realized that this was the first time she had ever really touched him of her own will. For a long moment, she, too, stared stupidly down at where they were joined, and then, just as swiftly as before, she was pinned against the wall. Again Nicholas took her chin in his hand, but this time he lifted her face to meet his own. His intention dawned on her only a second before his mouth came down upon hers.

  No Hoodman Blind boon was this, but a claiming as fierce as Nicholas him
self. Almost immediately, he thrust his tongue deep, and Gillian shuddered with the force of it. As if of its own accord, her hand slid up his arm to curl around his neck, beneath his dark hair. He pressed against her, tall and hard, and she reveled in the feel of his male body, so unlike anything she had ever known.

  His knee pushed between her thighs, nudging at the very center of her, and Gillian gasped, though she was unafraid. Never in her darkest dreams had she imagined such excitement, such frantic, hot delight. Boldly she ran a palm up the front of Nicholas’s broad chest, then grasped his tunic tightly, as if to anchor herself against the passion that buffeted her very being.

  Opening her mouth wider, Gillian returned his kiss, sending her tongue swirling to meet his, and Nicholas grunted in approval. His hands moved over her shoulders and arms and along her waist, as if he would mark her as his own.

  “Where did he touch you?” Nicholas rasped against her lips. Struggling to understand the question, Gillian opened her eyes to meet smoky ones simmering with heat. Listening to his shuddering breaths, she realized, with a sense of heady power, that now it was Nicholas who struggled for air.

  “Where?” he demanded. Emboldened, Gillian did not falter, but took his hand and dragged it to her bodice. Their gazes locked, her chest heaved, and slowly, so very slowly, Nicholas caressed her breast. Gillian gasped as bright, hot sensation leapt through her. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back, and he took her mouth again, fiercely, even as his hand closed around her, his thumb stroking her nipple into a hard peak.

  It was heaven, but fiery as hell, in the embrace of this beautiful, terrible creature, and Gillian felt herself falling from grace. What might have happened next, she would never know, for suddenly the door opened and Osborn bustled in with more hot water. Although Gillian clung, heedless, to the arms that held her, Nicholas stepped back, breaking away as if they were guilty lovers. Which, of course, they were not.

  “Your water is here,” he whispered hoarsely. Then, without a backward glance, he retrieved his pack and strode out of the chamber, leaving Gillian sagging against the wall, her heart pounding desperately.

  She stood where she was for a long while, ignoring Osborn’s cheery chatter until the servant left her alone with the tub. She wanted no one to attend her, for she felt strange, as foreign to herself as Darius, because of her swollen lips and heated skin.

  With trembling fingers, Gillian removed her gown, and when it fell to the floor she felt more naked than ever before, as if something besides her flesh had been bared. For the first time in her life, she looked down at herself. The body she had always thought too tall and gawky suddenly seemed lush and vital, her breasts heavy, her nipples hard, her thighs hot and moist where they had closed around Nicholas’s hard, muscular leg…

  Flushing, Gillian stepped into the water and sank down to her chin, but she could not relax. Her entire being felt warm and alive and wanting… Angrily Gillian scrubbed herself clean, as if to erase all traces of him, and as soon as she was finished, she climbed out, dried herself and dressed quickly in a fresh shift. Settling into her cozy nest at the end of the bed, she closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. The large chamber suddenly seemed especially quiet—and empty.

  It had nothing to do with Nicholas.

  Well, in all honesty, Gillian had to admit that her husband was so much larger than life that he filled any space, even this enormous room, with his fierce personality. And now that he was gone, it seemed particularly toom.

  That was all, Gillian told herself. Her restlessness had naught to do with what had passed between them, with the kiss, or whatever one would call what had happened up against that wall. Gillian’s eyes flickered to the spot, as if seeking some sign of what had occurred there, but no mark of the momentous event that had so affected her remained.

  Gillian tried push the memory to the back of her mind and concentrate, instead, on the conversation that had gone before, in which her husband had demanded that she act the part of some infidel slave girl. Or, worse yet, when she had offered to fix him something to help his stomach and he had turned on her like a wild beast.

  Any fool could see that Nicholas’s stomach pained him, if he observed him closely. Although he tried to hide it, Gillian had noticed the telltale movement of his hand to his belly and how his entire body tensed with the worst of it. Was he too proud to seek aid?

  Perhaps it was only her help that he refused, for Gillian remembered how the cook provided him with bland foods when everyone else was clamoring for exotic spices. Gillian stiffened, her chin automatically lifting at his rejection. Let him suffer, then, the stubborn wretch!

  Poison indeed, she fumed, recalling his accusation. She ought to take him up on his suggestion. A sprinkle of nightshade, and then she would be free of his bullying ways forever! Gillian savored the idea for a moment before the ramifications set in. Even if she could bring herself to do murder, she would not be her own master. As a rich widow, she would be prime game for Edward to marry off again, and Gillian shuddered at the thought of living with someone else.

  If she ceded Belvry to the king, maybe she could return to the convent, but Gillian did not find the notion as comforting as she ought to. Too vividly, she remembered the feel of the cold stone floor under her knees after hours of prayer, and the disorientation of being roused at midnight to chant before catching snatches of sleep and rising again at dawn.

  Crossing herself quickly, Gillian was ashamed of her own failings, but now that she had been to Belvry, with its beautiful lands, friendly people, fine food, soft pillows and private chambers… She realized with a sudden start that she would rather brave her fiendish husband than go back to the nunnery.

  Of course, her choice had nothing to do with him. If she was sent away, she would miss Edith and all those who had been kind and welcoming to her, even Darius, with his strange, watchful eyes. She would certainly not yearn for her husband, with his hateful gaze and fits of temper and hard body and hot mouth…

  Gillian raised trembling fingers to her cheek, where he had touched her, and let them slide lower down, over her breast. Her heart pounded wildly, as if it might burst from her body, just at the memory of what he had done to her. Nicholas’s rough hands had felt nothing like Freemantle’s clumsy groping. Indeed, she could now barely recall her old master, for Nicholas had made her forget all else but him, as if in those few, fevered moments, he had marked her as his own.

  And perhaps he had. Try as she might, Gillian knew she could no longer lie to herself. She wanted Nicholas to do it all again—wanted him as fiercely as she had once despised him.

  Alone in the vast room, she gasped for breath, for the knowledge of her weakness was as frightening as it was heady. And, ultimately, disastrous. For as much as she yearned for her husband, she could never surrender herself to him.

  Chapter Nine

  Nicholas did not try to tamp down the eagerness that ran through him as he approached Belvry. He told himself that it was natural to enjoy returning to his own lands and that it had nothing to do with Gillian.

  Still, she sprang to mind, strong and tall and fiery, a mate worthy of any man. And she was his. This time he would not find her engaged with the servants in some lowly task, nor would he discover her in some private conversation with Darius. The Syrian would keep his distance from Gillian.

  As would Abel Freemantle.

  Nicholas’s lips curled. All the pleasure he had thought to feel when tormenting his bride had come to him in the form of Abel Freemantle. He had descended upon the burgher’s home like an avenging angel, dragging the bastard out in front of his entire household. Nicholas had cataloged his crimes until he was on his knees, begging for his life, while his wife and children wept and pleaded, too.

  Even then, Nicholas had wanted to run the man through, and only the memory of Gillian’s remonstrations had stayed his sword arm. Exacting a promise from the quaking burgher that he would touch no one but his wife ever again, Nicholas had let him live. The ma
n had agreed most willingly, especially after Nicholas threatened to come back and castrate him if he broke his word.

  Assured that the burgher’s perverted games were over, Nicholas had left, without ever giving his name or revealing the source of his information. Gillian should be pleased, he thought, not bothering to wonder why her opinion should concern him.

  But it did. Nicholas looked forward to her reaction. Aye, when she learned of his deed, she would be most gratefulindebted to him, even. Anticipation heated his blood, and he strode into the great hall swiftly, his eyes searching for her.

  Almost immediately, they found her, and he smiled in satisfaction. At last, she had heeded his words well and would attend him as she should! For the first time since their marriage, she was waiting for him upon his return, dressed appropriately in a gown green as her eyes, her cheeks flushed becomingly as she moved forward to greet him.

  For a moment, Nicholas considered catching her up in his arms, but he swiftly discarded the notion, startled by the odd turn of this thoughts. He did not want her to think he was actually glad to see her, because he was not. Was he?

  Scowling at his own weakness, Nicholas noticed his steward approaching, but his attention was upon Gillian. He forced himself to stop and let her come to him. It felt heady, this first glimpse of her as his personal slave. When she was but a few feet from him, she stopped, and he wondered if she would reach for him.

  She did not. Instead, she curled her fingers into fists and glared at him. “How could you? What of his widow and children? Who will provide for them, now that you have murdered their father in cold blood?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nicholas saw his steward quickly change direction, and it was just as well. He had a few things to say to the woman who was shouting at him, her eyes flashing fire. “What the devil are you ranting about?” he snapped.